Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Some of her tension seeped out. “And like us.”

  Soon the brush of his hard body against hers, the synchronizing of their breathing replaced calm with the crackle of sexual awareness. She remembered the press of his heavy weight on her, the flex of his muscles as he moved inside her, and she wanted him again. Against her behind, she could feel the evidence of his desire.

  “You look nice and smell even nicer,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “Nothing special. Hotel soap and Mimi’s capris, but thanks.” One last raid on Mimi’s closet for the royal-blue pants and matching gauze top had supplied an alternative outfit to her own jeans and tee. Guilt cut through her enjoyment of being in his arms and she eased away from him. “Any word on Mimi? Have you talked to her mom?”

  “Just had a voicemail from Del Rio. He spoke to her. Your cousin moved her arms, and her eyelids fluttered. The doctors are more hopeful. They’ll wake her soon.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She crossed to the small table where the waiter had placed a carafe of the island’s white wine and two goblets. “You promised to tell me Plan B after your shower. Partners, remember?”

  The shadows were deepening around him, but enough light remained to see his gaze, as hot and gold as the center of a flame. She left his wine goblet on the table so her fingers wouldn’t brush his.

  “Thanks.” He picked up the wine. “I don’t have all the details yet. Andres is arranging for a boat to take us to Mykonos, where we can get a flight to Athens. I expect to hear from him later.”

  She took a long, cooling swallow of wine as she watched the play of shadows on Thomas’s strong features. He wasn’t even touching her, and she felt the heat.

  Turning to the dark countryside, dappled with house lights here and there, she expected him to pick up the conversation. But he seemed to be content to share the silence.

  Here was her opportunity. “I’ve been thinking more about last night.”

  “So have I.” His gaze gleamed hotter and he reached for her. “And about tonight.”

  Chapter 14

  AS SHE DANCED away from Thomas’s touch, his hand closed on air and frustration.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Sex?” He grinned. “No, but I did.” But he wouldn’t push. He held up his hands in surrender and blew out a huff of breath. “We’re not done. We damn near combusted last night and the fire’s not out. I can wait.”

  But not for long. The way she looked tonight in that wispy top that gave him glimpses of the skin beneath made control damn hard. The tiny pulse beating at the base of her throat said she didn’t want to wait long either.

  She cleared her throat. “I started to say, about last night, when you rescued me from Sergio, I get that you were hanging around in the corridor. But how did you enter the room so fast to rescue me?” She slugged down some wine.

  He opted for the minimum, only what she asked for. “Door wasn’t shut.”

  She huffed. “I was careless about the slider but the door clicked shut. Try again.”

  He didn’t like to disclose DSF secrets. But this was Cleo. He went inside to his pack and returned with the device. “This electronic lock decoder detects the key-card code to unlock the door. We have variations for other types of locks. I did what was necessary.”

  Her brows crimped together as she tried to parse his admission. Probably deciding if she could trust him. “I’m grateful. I imagine you’re not telling me everything. Maybe I don’t want to know. A security company must have lots of surveillance devices.”

  “We do a variety of protection. With a variety of equipment.” He kept his expression bland but saw skepticism in her eyes.

  “High-tech equipment, no doubt. I see.” She settled into one of the chairs, apparently leaving that topic, thank God. “You were in the army headed to Iraq the last time I saw you. How did Devlin Security Force come about?”

  Why ask this now? He eyed her for a moment. When he saw her deliberately loosen her death grip on the goblet, he knew he had her off balance. He dragged the chair closer, angling so he could drape his arm over her chair back and breathe her in, touch her.

  She twisted, swishing her soft hair just out of reach. “Problem? Did I ask too personal a question?”

  Her anxious tone jerked him back to sanity. His delayed reaction must have ratcheted up her nerves. He shook his head. “Surprised me you didn’t ask before. No secret. Everyone in my company knows why I founded DSF. Even after a new Iraqi government was installed, looting of archeological sites continued, in some places on an industrial scale. The Special Forces team I commanded rousted looters in the south at several sites. Some of my men were injured, but no one seriously. It was worse in Afghanistan. Much worse.”

  He looked away, memories of bloody losses a barrage behind his eyes. Cross, his engineer, blown to pink mist. If Lucas hadn’t stopped to check his sidearm and Thomas hadn’t gone wide to check the ditch... Comrades wounded, comrades—and friends— gone. A muscle in his jaw cramped. The scars on his ribs stung with fresh pain.

  He saw the question in her eyes. Before she could ask, he returned to his story.

  “Seeing the destruction of Baghdad, one of the world’s historic cities, looting of the monuments and antiquities of ancient Babylonia, Sumeria, Ur—” He flung out an arm in a gesture of futility and disgust.

  “You were a history major. I can imagine your reaction.”

  “History suited the quirky part of my brain that retains odd facts. Helpful in my work now too.” He leaned closer, wound his fingers in her curls. Her shoulders twitched but she didn’t stop him. “You remember my college studies? I’m flattered.”

  “If you’ve forgotten my teenage crush, I’m not flattered.” She smiled, easing the awkward moment, then poured them both more wine.

  How had he forgotten this comforting ability she had, to be serious and gently humorous at the same time? She’d understood he didn’t want to talk about Afghanistan and left it alone. She was sensitive and kind, brave and determined, not flaky and undirected like Andie.

  “History, particularly ancient history. Art theft steals culture but robbing tombs and ancient sites and stealing artifacts from museums steals more—culture and history.”

  “I was horrified,” she said, “just seeing it on the news.”

  “You’re talking about the Baghdad museum, after the invasion. But the real looting and destruction began afterward because the guards at the historical sites fled. First it was opportunistic thieves and later organized groups of terrorists funding their operations.”

  “Like al-Qaida in Iraq and ISIS?”

  “Right. AQI when I was there. Damned frustrating witnessing it first hand and being able to do so little,” he said, staring into the golden liquid. “But here’s an example my Delta team handled. In the south, at a temple near Ishan, looters broke dozens of artifacts, hauled away lots more. Cuneiform tablets, metal and copper statuettes, some dating to 2600 BC. Many have never been recovered. Including some stolen by Marco Zervas.”

  “Ah, so your duel with him is personal,” she said.

  His mouth twisted. “Very. He was part of my team, my weapons sergeant.” He gave her a thin smile. “I’d suspected him of petty thefts within the team but had no proof. When I saw him carting away statuettes, tiles, and medallions, I had him arrested. He blames me for his prison term and his dishonorable discharge.” Then Zervas disappeared into the underground European scene, maybe building Centaur from looted treasure he’d spirited away before being nabbed.

  “I’ve known guys like that. Nothing is ever their fault. Their screw-ups are someone else’s fault or someone out to get them.”

  Bitter tone from personal experience? He let it go, for now. “Zervas to a T. Naming his criminal network for the mythological warrior tribe insults them and the U.S. military.” He finished his wine and slid aside the glass.

  “Did he come from the streets? How does a man go from petty thievery to head a major cr
ime syndicate?”

  Thomas rubbed his nape. The last thing he wanted was to feel sympathy for Marco Zervas. “I received his file before he joined my team. His father was a wealthy New York stockbroker and art collector. When Marco was a teenager, his dad got caught bilking his clients and ended up in jail and dead broke.”

  “You mean like the Madoff scheme?”

  “Not quite on the same scale, but yeah. After his own troubles with the law—minor stuff— Marco had a choice, the military or jail.”

  “So he chose the military, but followed in good ol’ Dad’s footsteps, sort of.” She wagged her head, shook out her hair. “He could’ve gone either way, even straightened himself out.”

  “Taking the wrong road was his choice to make.”

  “And Devlin Security Force?” she prompted.

  “When I came home from Afghanistan, I started DSF. I designed a narrower focus than most security companies. Our mission is to protect and retrieve art and artifacts.”

  “Totally makes sense to me, Thomas. DSF provides sort of art bodyguards?”

  “Like for the Cleopatra exhibit. The term bodyguard makes me think of ex-boxers with more brawn than brains. My operatives are highly skilled and trained. I prefer the term security specialists. But yes, that’s a big part of our operation. We also do consultations and security installations for museums, galleries, and private collections.”

  “Impressive. But not surprising. Your dad must be proud.” Sorrow flickered in her green gaze. Unlike mine. Her unspoken words hovered in the air.

  She placed a hand on his forearm, making a muscle leap beneath her warm, soft palm. When he withdrew from her touch, she flinched. Before she could think he’d rejected her, he linked his fingers with hers, circling his thumb on the soft skin of her inner wrist. When her breathing quickened, he smiled.

  “Maybe he feels that way now but not at first. He has yet to say one way or the other. Not following the old man’s lead into the navy was a bitter pill. Then when I didn’t make the army a career, he nearly had a stroke. We butted heads over Andie some, but he got off both our backs now she’s doing better. At least I think so.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the stars.

  Cleo covered a yawn, he stood, holding onto her hand and drawing her up with him. “You’re falling asleep. No surprise you’re exhausted.”

  She smiled, all sleepy eyed and sexy. Flushed and soft. “Tired, yes. Nothing like being shot at to make a girl burn up the pavement. And her energy supply.”

  They strolled inside. A table lamp diffused a golden glow across the whitewashed walls and the olivewood framed bed.

  “A goodnight kiss, Cleo.” He dragged her into his arms and dipped his head, nuzzling her neck, absorbing her scent, and tasting his way to her mouth. She clung to him, her lips demanding and yielding. Need pounded through him and his pulse hammered along with hers. “If after last night, you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand. We have nothing in common except our past. There’s the age difference, the danger...”

  He stepped back before hunger drove away the rest of his sense.

  Cleo sucked in a breath, every cell in her body strumming. His grin raced her heart faster than that little car today. She’d insisted that morning that sex would distract from dealing with the danger. But wasn’t her awareness of him, the wanting beyond distracting too? She would have regrets later, legions of them, but what about regrets for what she missed?

  She could see his arousal pressing against his jeans placket and still he stood there, hot awareness in his eyes saying he felt the same need. But he was leaving the choice to her. Honorable, true to his word.

  Or something else? “You, Thomas Devlin, Junior, are full of crap. Nothing in common? An interest in art, for starters. And the age difference? Okay, when I was eighteen and you twenty-eight. Now it means about as much as the difference in our hair color. Zip. Plenty of men see no problem with hooking up with younger women. You’re pulling excuses out of thin air. If you don’t want me, just say so.”

  Heat but no humor lighted his eyes. He yanked her hard against him. Against her belly his hardness spoke for him. When you tease the eagle, be ready for him to swoop.

  He made no other moves, simply watched and waited. Always in control, with that focus on whatever he did, he controlled his needs, his emotions, and everything else. Including her.

  Okay, so he did want her. Last night he’d taken her beyond anything she’d experienced before. No man had ever left her completely satisfied, yet ready to make love again. Both times she’d been the one out of control, not him. Once, just once, she’d like to see him lose control.

  Heart fluttering like the prom wallflower approaching the star quarterback, she backed away a step. “I’ve heard race-car drivers need good sex before they go to sleep.”

  She pulled off her gauze top and lacy bra over her head. The capris came off next, leaving her in only bikini panties.

  “This engine’s already revved. But no racing to the finish.” Heat burned in his gaze as he kissed her again and cupped a palm over one breast.

  Her nerves melted away as his touch pulsated along her skin. “You have on too many clothes. Again.”

  “Easily taken care of.” He pulled off the polo and kicked out of his jeans and boxers. He radiated heat and power, filling her senses with his male energy. He withdrew a packet from his jeans pocket and tossed it on the bed. “Picked up a supply in Thira when I bought the food.”

  “I should’ve known. Weren’t you an Eagle Scout?”

  Kissing her, he eased them onto the bed, turned down earlier by a maid. His hands and his lips were everywhere, on her breasts, on her belly, on her thighs, every caress lighting flames. When his tongue found her, she went boneless.

  No. Not yet. She wanted him wild and aching the same way. She kissed him as she pushed him onto his back, sliding over him, licking his flat nipples until he moaned, kissing his taut belly, branding him with her tongue. When she found ropy scar tissue on his left flank, she kissed that. Her hand closed around him, big and heavy, and he jerked, engorged with need.

  “Cleo.” Scooping her up, he eased one of her legs over his hip. He slid inside, deeply, fiercely, hungrily, gritting his teeth, his head back, neck muscles straining.

  Intense pleasure washed through her as he drove deeper and began to move. She abandoned all hope of control and gave herself up to the sensual journey, to the heat coursing through her to the rhythm of his thrusting. She tried to gather strength to reach for him, to drive him to the same peak but she had no power over her body. When she could take no more, incandescence flowed through her in a huge, pulsing wave, and she felt him move once, twice more before he came swift and hard on a deep groan.

  Afterward, she let him tuck her close, and she lay there, dazed and dreamy after such arching pleasure. The man was tough, but his control slipped at the end. She awarded herself points for the groan.

  She propped herself on one elbow and gazed down at him. Eyes unfocused and mouth relaxed, he looked as groggy and stunned as she. Whoohoo, another point. Next time, she’d have him begging.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering about those scars on your side. Afghanistan?”

  “Not a story you want to hear.”

  Back to control. Not gonna happen. Control and keeping his distance. On his terms. Interesting. “Or one you don’t want to tell? Classified?”

  “The location is, but not the disaster.” He lay still for a moment as if deciding. Finally he turned to face her, scrunching the pillow beneath his head. “We’d left our transport and split up. A few of us headed into a village to talk to the head man. A regular army squad had supposedly cleared the way but they missed an IED beside the dirt road. The explosion killed one man immediately.” His breath hitched and his gaze seemed to turn inward. “The blast threw the rest of us into the next day. Made us a bloody mess.”

  “One man dead. The rest survived?”r />
  He nodded. “Long road back for a couple with traumatic brain injury and lost limbs. Lucas Del Rio has facial scars. He lost much of the hearing in one ear.”

  Ah. The reason he left the army before Thomas did. “And you?”

  “Lost a lot of blood, concussion, but no internal damage. I was lucky. I finished my tour. My last tour.”

  More scarring internally, she guessed, after such horror and loss. He lost his mom when he was only a kid, maybe fourteen, fifteen, and had to grow up fast. Did he cry for her? Did his dad let him? And it looked like he blamed himself for the army deaths, for not leading flawlessly, but he’d come out of it strong and with new goals. A man who cared, a man who acted with cool competence—and control—in difficult situations.

  “You’ve done so much with your life. I wish I could say the same about mine.” On a sigh, she flopped onto her back.

  “You’re doing it now, Cleo.” He bent to brush his lips on hers, not a kiss of seduction, but tender and consoling. “And you’ve pursued your talent. I saw the sketches you did on the ship. As a kid you were always drawing or painting.”

  “We sketched together once or twice summers when you were in college.”

  Color flagged his cheeks above his beard stubble. “Right. When I saw the drama and depth in those simple drawings of yours, I knew then I’d fooled myself into thinking I had talent. When I returned the next semester, I switched my minor from art to art history. Made my dad marginally happier with my choice of studies. Cleo, your work is even more compelling and powerful now. You have real talent.”

  His praise blipped her pulse. She smiled. “Thank you. You saying that means a lot.”

  “Let me guess. Hoot never said it.” He brushed her hair back from her face, smoothed it across the pillow.

  Her scalp shivered at the sensual touch. “Maybe when my paintings are hanging in the Met. Mom talked him into letting me do two years at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. Only time I recall she really stood up to him. But he kept harping on me needing discipline, structure.”